


Obstinate, Headstrong Girl

by realjane



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - Regency, F/M, References to Jane Austen, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-12-22
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:47:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27551800
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/realjane/pseuds/realjane
Summary: Hermione Granger has spent her formative years in the care of the Weasleys, a wealthy wizarding family and staple of Devonshire. Kept from a proper education at Hogwarts and forced to serve a family that does not love her, Miss Granger has taken solace in their youngest son, Ronald. As the only man she's ever loved becomes engaged to another, Miss Granger faces her future.What is an obstinate, headstrong girl to do?Harry Potter Regency AU. *updates once a month!**on hiatus, in Covid recovery*
Relationships: Endgame Dramione - Relationship, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Hermione Granger/Blaise Zabini, Hermione Granger/Draco Malfoy, Hermione Granger/Ron Weasley, Pansy Parkinson/Ron Weasley
Comments: 25
Kudos: 70





	1. the less they will do

**Author's Note:**

> This piece is inspired by Mansfield Park and Pride and Prejudice most specifically, but will very likely--intentionally and not--reference other Jane Austen works. The author will take great liberties with historical precedence, and incorporate magic as she sees fit. :) I'll be updating once a month, mid-month.

_“There are people, who the more you do for them, the less they will do for themselves.” - Jane Austen, Emma_

  
*

Devon has long been the residence of the wizarding family Weasley, whose estate at Ottery St. Catchpole is such the envy of the surrounding counties as to inspire countless garish facsimiles. The land surrounding Burrow Lodge is entailed upon farmers and craftsmen, good Muggle families who take great comfort from their landlord’s demeanor. The good opinion of their tenants is due in large part to the fact that the owner of Burrow Lodge is neglectful in collecting rents nearly every month, and generous with his well-stocked pond. Weasley has a dutiful wife to recommend him, who bore him enough sons to ensure that Burrow Lodge would remain a fixture of the Weasley family many, many, many generations after his eventual death. There are six sons, and one daughter, who (being the youngest and the only witch) is spoiled endlessly by both her parents: William, the eldest, Charles, Percival, identical twins Frederick and George, Ronald, and Ginevra.

The summer Ginevra turned nine, Mr. Weasley received into his care the eleven-year-old daughter of his trusted steward, Granger. The mousy child, a girl called Hermione, would supply his only daughter with a playmate, and in turn be reared in as much conspicuousness as could be afforded the only child of a beloved servant. Ginevra, on the other hand, had developed a propensity for pranks like her twin elder brothers, and respectable tactics to avoid taking any responsibility for them. And none of those had included a propensity for friendship with another girl.

*

The carriages are running late. 

The post came and went, and they gave no reason as to why they would be so tardy. The eldest brother only mentioned in a brief postscript that the seven Weasley’s would be accompanied home for the Christmas holiday by four _additional_ persons in a second barouche. Nevermind that one of them is the richest man in England, and the fiancé of Miss Ginevra Weasley. Rich visitors have little consequence in fellow homes of wealth, and the rich in Devon take great pains to arrive as far from the scheduled arrival time as possible.

Miss Granger is not yet four and twenty, but an invitation to the seaside for her was rejected by Mrs. Weasley, who had insisted emphatically that she _had need of her._ So it always goes. If she fancies her husband in the least bit ill, it is Hermione who must nurse him back to the pallor of a buttermilk biscuit. Three weeks without Ronald to divert her has been torturous indeed. 

_Gods, why are they so very late?_

Hermione sighs, and the curls on her forehead dance. Mrs. Weasley insisted that Hermione look presentable for their guests, so she was subjected to the hot iron for nearly two hours. The wild curls are pinned like sausages into a chignon at the base of her neck. Ronald will insist she looks grand, but Frederick and George will be sure to find much fault in her. 

Hermione’s breath fogs the windowpane. 

She is always meek in the society of the eldest male Weasleys. They are as boisterous as they are fiery. _It is decidedly disagreeable to be always the brunt of their jokes._ In the first month of her stay at Burrow Lodge, so little was seen of her that it became a comfortable family joke that she must have fallen down the well, only to find her huddled in a corner with a dwindling candle and a book. 

Ronald has long been the only sibling who had any regard for Hermione. As a wee child, she found herself more often than not sharing her secret hiding places with him. In turn, he gave her books about magic, and even taught her how to read ancient runes. 

Her cheeks blush to think of him. He has a kindness, a measured affability which recommends him greatly as a friend, plus grace and gentleness which well become a man of his stature, even if he will inherit very little from his father. He will make a fine curate, if the church will have him. After three weeks by the sea, his hair will be itching his ears. He will bear it without complaint, until Hermione coaxes him to sit in front of the kitchen hearth with her small scissors.

When the horses turn through the gate, Hermione flies from her window seat and alights the stairs without touching down. _He’s here, he’s here._ She draws her shawl around her shoulders and bursts through the front door of the manor house as the Weasley’s fine carriage pulls up before the steps. A second silver barouche is close at hand. The servants stand at the ready, and Mr. Weasley takes his place at the base of the steps. His imposing top hat does not deter his sons from bursting forth out of the carriage, and shaking his hands each in their turn. 

Hermione shrinks back against the stone railing, behind Mrs. Reynolds, the cook. “It’s alright, dear,” Mrs. Reynolds murmurs. She holds out her hand behind her back, and Hermione grips it tightly.

The two eldest sons lead the parade into the house, boisterous and howling, while Percival and the twins follow behind. To her everlasting relief, they ignore her. Ronald is the last to emerge from the Weasley’s carriage.

Hermione steps out from behind the cook, and smiles brightly at her dearest friend. As soon as he lays eyes on her, Ronald’s face breaks into the most delighted grin, but he does not go to her as he ought. Instead, he hastens in his fetching blue silk coat to the second barouche and waits in attendance for Merlin-knows-whom.

The door swings open and Mr. Potter emerges. Hermione has seen him on only one other occasion, in church for the wedding of a distant Weasley cousin; he has small spectacles that perch on the end of his nose, but he is otherwise a fine looking gentleman. He has a small scar on his forehead from an incident as an infant, which he willingly tells the story of whenever he is asked. He sports a burgundy jacket and gold waistcoat, which sets off his shock of black hair nicely. Mr. Potter holds out a hand, and Miss Weasley steps out of the barouche with his assistance. She too is finely attired, but in light blue muslin. Her feathered bonnet ties neatly beneath her chin, and her crimson curls spill over her cheeks. 

Next to emerge is a woman whom Hermione has never seen before--a slim, pale woman with jet black hair wearing tangerine and sage. Where Ginny’s bonnet is flowery and feathered, this woman’s hat is velvet, perched, and draped fetchingly to one side. Ronald helps her out of the carriage, and offers her his arm. Two more gentlemen step out in their own time, both of whom are too starched and pinned to be anything other than a fine picture of wealth. 

Hermione’s heart leaps into her throat. Ronald… just look at me. _Look at me._ But he does not turn to her again. His gaze is focused intently on the dark-haired woman, who preens under his attention. 

“May I borrow you?” Mrs. Reynolds murmurs to Hermione, pulling her focus from the strangers. 

“Of course, Mrs. Reynolds.” She allows herself to be pulled back into the manor, without having the pleasure of greeting her oldest friend.

Mrs. Reynolds enlists Hermione to bring in the cart to the drawing room, so that their guests might take their tea immediately upon settling in. The room fills with the liveliness of eleven people who have just shared a holiday. Mrs. Weasley stands to receive their guests at the door. Mr. Weasley bows with all the gentility of an aubergine in a top hat. Hermione stands beside her usual chair, practically concealed by a screen in the corner. The Weasley brothers span the outskirts of the room, while the visitors fill in the middle. Ronald steps forward and gestures to the party.

“Mama, Father, may I introduce Mister Potter, Miss Parkinson, Lord Zabini, and Captain Malfoy.” Ronald points to each person in their turn. The two stuffed shirts are indeed fine gentlemen. Mr. Potter emphatically shakes Mr. Weasley’s hand. Lord Zabini bows and smiles brightly, with all the charm and affability of a man who has been born to entertain. Captain Malfoy barely inclines his head. 

“How do you do!” Mr. Weasley booms. "You are very welcome, gentlemen."

"Many thanks, good sir. We are delighted to tread upon your kindness, for as long as you'll have us," Mr. Potter says with a jovial pleasantness, which could either come from genuine delight or good manners.

“And who is this exquisite creature?” Mr. Zabini demands, pointing to Hermione. She blanches as all eyes settle on her, looking to Ron in panic.

Ron laughs. “Why, this is a most delightful creature indeed. Miss Hermione Granger. A writer of some renown, at least to me, and a dear companion of my sister’s for these twelve years.” He tugs Hermione forward by the elbow. Ginevra scoffs.

“Delighted to make your acquaintance,” Hermione says softly. She curtsies to Lord Zabini. Miss Parkinson gives her no hint of curious acknowledgement, and Captain Malfoy even less. Still, Mr. Potter smiles, and Lord Zabini clasps her fingers.

“Hermione. What are you still doing here?” Mrs. Weasley crows.

Hermione’s face falls. “I beg your pardon,” she peeps. Fred and George snicker, and Ginevra fails to cover her delighted smirk.

Mrs. Weasley drums her fingers on her elbows. “You are quite aware that the sewing wasn’t cleared away from yesterday afternoon.”

“Oh. Yes, you’re quite right.” Tears well in the corners of her eyes, but Hermione curtsies anyway, and makes her way from the drawing room under a sea of watchful glances. “I’ll just take care of that, shall I?”

She closes the door to the drawing room behind her and presses her back to the wood. Her eyes are wet. 

“Is she not out? In society?” a faint voice asks from behind the door, presumably Zabini’s. A collection of laughter bubbles from the room. Hermione cannot bear it.

She flees to the library, and not to the sewing room as Mrs. Weasley intended. She tucks herself into the wingback chair facing the hearth, feet pulled up beneath her, and buries her face in her knees. Of course. Nothing has changed. They are, as always, the family who _allows_ her to remain, and never cherishes her company for their own. 

The floor creaks and her eyes snap open. “I know, I’m not allowed in here--”

“It matters not,” a low voice insists. “Besides, who would I tell?” A pair of black boots come into view and a white handkerchief is proffered. “Do not give them the satisfaction of your tears,” he says. Hermione takes the offering and wipes her eyes, putting her feet back on the ground in haste. She looks up. Grey eyes glint at her in the fire light.

“I wasn’t crying,” she whispers. She dabs away her treasonous tears anyhow. 

“I was mistaken.” He clasps his hands behind his back, and straightens to a noble posture, as if he is addressing a room full of sailors. Once he has discerned that her weeping has truly ceased, Captain Malfoy steps away. Her gaze follows him.

“How long have you been in the country?” she asks.

He stands at the window, with nary a concern for her desperate sniffles to regain composure. “Two weeks. Devon is not what I had in mind,” he says. “I find I have a taste for the sea, and nothing can quench it.”

“Devon is flanked on two sides by the sea.”

“I have run aground.” He shakes his head. He is a tall man, with wide shoulders that bear his coat across them like velvet over marble, but he has fair hair and fairer eyes, which in the blue light of the moon and yellow light of the hearth glow like silver. He can’t be much older than her. He has all the countenance of a man twenty years his senior, but none of the wrinkles. Perhaps he has not an intensity of feeling, which so grips the Weasley fellows. Still, he had discovered her, and offered a small bit of comfort, which is more than can be said for her usual companion, whose absence in her distress is keenly felt.

“Will you be staying at Burrow Lodge long?” Hermione traces her finger over the monogram on his handkerchief.

He does not regard her, but nods. “I am at the whim of my friend.”

“Lord Zabini.”

“Yes. He has a particular interest in a business venture with Mr. Potter, and he requires my advice.”

“What advice is that?”

“He values my opinions. Beyond that, he requires me to approve of his taste in friends.”

“And how do you find them?”

Captain Malfoy sighs. “Mr. Potter is most certainly a friendly wizard, with wealth enough to recommend him. The Weasley brothers are… an interesting lot. Perhaps save Ronald, I find them all to be in some ways obsessed with their own minds, and in _all_ ways determined to have them known.”

She smiles. “Yes… I think that is astute.”

“Hermione!” Mrs. Weasley’s tinny voice carries down the hall. Hermione scrambles to her feet, and thrusts her hand out to return the Captain’s handkerchief. 

“Keep it,” he mutters. He bows curtly, and strides from the room, turning on his heel to greet the lady of the house as she approaches the open doorway. He glances back at Hermione. “You’re right, Miss Granger. It is a _fine_ library. I thank you for availing yourself, I shan’t keep you from your errand any longer.” Mrs. Weasley’s perturbed face appears around the frame of the door and she glares at her ward.

“What were you doing speaking with the Captain?” she whispers fiercely. “Surely, you don’t have your sights set on a wealthy war hero. He would never stoop so low.”

“He’s been here all of an hour,” Hermione sighs.

The elder woman bears her yellow teeth with a hiss. “These grand wizards are not your equal. You would do well to remember that, Squib.” She flounces away, with taffeta rustling behind her.

“So you constantly remind me,” Hermione says, when the woman is out of earshot. “And I’m not a Squib, you old bat.” 

The horrid nickname takes her back, to the days when the Weasley children were still attending school, and she was reminded every moment of her magical inferiority. At least these days she can find several hours of amusement, far away from Mrs. Weasley’s scrutiny. And she has her journal. Well, Ronald has it. She eagerly waited for him to send it back, but instead, he had promised to bring it when he came home. If only she can catch him alone.

Oh, Ron. He is so grown, so handsome… her palms heat with unspent potential, and the air crackles around her. Oh, to expel the magic which thrums in her. So much energy, and nowhere to channel it. It claws at her heart.

She is twelve again, in her mind.

Though she has always had a propensity for shyness, and keeps to herself as much as she is able, Hermione indulges herself in stolen moments by writing little stories, in a notebook Ronald gave her for her twelfth birthday. He has replaced the notebook for each subsequent birthday, as she fills the pages to the brim with adventures. She composes each message in runes, so that only Ronald can read them, and each name is masked as another; Mrs. Weasley is Queen Moll, Ginevra is Princess Verity, and Mr. Weasley is Lord Loafer. The brothers are Odd, Tod, Nod, Pod, and Cod. Ronald is Lancelot. At the end of each tale, Ronald writes his review in the book, always followed by a plea for more. “Nod and Pod’s duel was particularly good, though I do wonder how a victor could be declared when they pierced each other through the heart and each died. Even more curious is that Lord Loafer danced on their graves, is he not one hundred years old? Don’t keep me in suspense!”

It happened twelve years prior, after surviving another blistering return of the ‘Od boys for Christmas holiday (and being caught by Mr. Weasley on three separate occasions in the library, and being subsequently banned), that Hermione had her first episode of magical potential. Having thought herself to be a Muggle, as had been so repeatedly asserted to her by Mrs. Weasley, Hermione kept this particular revelation a secret as long as she was able. But, as secrets are wont to do, the truth came out; Hermione set fire to her curtains in the course of fitful sleep, and were it not for a servant smelling smoke, she would have burned herself and the top floor of Burrow Lodge to ash. Mrs. Weasley’s grip on her only tightened after that, and she was forced to yet again endure countless hours of schooling alongside Ginevra.

Spring came and made way for Summer, and fondness grew between Hermione and her one friend, Ronald. He knew just how it felt to be subjected to his boisterous, overbearing family. He was kind, and made her laugh when an impasse had been met with his mother, relegating her to her bedroom after dinner. Ronald was not so brotherly in his affection for her as to be impersonal, and he was noble in his desire to keep her comfortable and unaffected by his mother’s rantings, while still offering to help her perfect her rather tenuous grip on her magical ability, without her own wand--he had a good heart, and his eyes crinkled when he smiled at her. 

It was further Ronald’s idea that Hermione have the opportunity to study more magic, and as such, they would remain in each other’s company by both attending Hogwarts for the first time in the autumn. 

When that summer waned, Hermione had broached the idea with Mr. Weasley that she might be sent away to Hogwarts. With Ron’s support, she had brought them a series of reasons, namely: “I won’t be a burden to you if I’m away at school.” (Hermione’s contribution.) “I’ll be much less likely to set fires by accident if I receive proper schooling.” (Ron’s contribution.) “And anyway, they’ve allowed girls there for nearly a hundred years, so surely they’ll take me.” Hermione had folded her arms behind her back and bit her lip.

 _“Miss Granger, I’m sure you’re aware that one must be invited to attend the most prestigious wizarding school in the world,”_ Mrs. Weasley had tutted, shaking her head. 

_“I didn’t know that.”_ Hermione had looked down at her ratty boots, which peeked out from under the hem of her dress.

 _“Hermione is twelve like me, mother. Don’t you think they’d take her?”_ Ron had squeezed Hermione’s hand. _“I’m sure it was an accident, her not being invited.”_

 _“And who would pay for her books, her tuition, her robes?”_ Mr. Weasley had huffed. _“I have six children attending Hogwarts in the fall, my boy. I’m not made of money!”_

 _“Even if Miss Granger were to be invited, it just isn’t possible for us to pay for it. Unless she suddenly finds a sponsor of some sort, but who do we know that would honestly pledge to paying for seven years of schooling for a child that isn’t related to them by blood?”_ Mrs. Weasley had folded her hands on her lap and sighed wistfully. _“So, you see… it isn’t possible. Hermione will continue her private studies at Burrow Lodge.”_

And that’s all that was ever said about that. That September, Lancelot had departed for his first year at Hogwarts with the rest of his brothers, and Hermione, bereft at the loss of her friend until Christmas, dove head-first into her studies with Mrs. Weasley. And so the time had passed--twelve years of it, as the Weasley children each graduated Hogwarts, and went on to University in their own time, and Hermione became a woman, without remarking about it too closely. Though her guardian had rarely taught her anything remotely magical, Hermione still took comfort from a busy schedule, kept rigorous by Mrs. Weasley’s untiring energy. Propelled by spite or grief, Hermione had became quite adept with a needle--

“Have you been touched by the fae?” Ronald’s bemused grin greets her as her daydream fades away. She jumps for joy and throws her arms around his neck. He lifts her, spinning her feet from the ground. Jeering shouts echo down the hall, and Ron pulls Hermione into the library quickly. From inside his jacket, he produces the little brown journal with the marbled flyleaf, which he had inscribed for her in his neat script on her last birthday just a few months prior. He presents it like a prize.

“Your last entry was a feat of prose,” he says proudly. 

Hermione clutches the journal to her chest. “I can’t wait to read your notes, I’ve been anxious for them.”

“I didn’t have time to write them down,” he says, peeking around the doorway distractedly. “I must know. Hermione… what do you think of her?”

She blinks. His face is flushed and giddy. “Whom?”

“Miss Parkinson. Lord Zabini’s cousin. Is she not a picture?” 

She swallows hard. “Yes, she’s lovely.”

“An accomplished witch, too. Cor, ‘Mione. And I’ve never heard such pretty singing! You should play a duet of an evening. I know you’ll agree. You always do.” He squeezes her arm. 

“Ahem, yes… well, not tonight. I must tidy the sewing room like your mother asked.” She tamps down rising panic, which threatens to burst forth in whatever unbecoming manner comes to her first. A barbaric scream might be on order. “But another evening. If I’m allowed.”

Hermione curtsies and hastens down the hall, with her dearest friend hot on her heels. “Hermione, don’t be that way--”

“Like what?” She wheels on him. “I’m busy, Ronald. Get back to your Miss Parkinson before you’re missed. I’m glad you’re back. I hope you had a pleasant trip.”

Upon entering the sewing room, Hermione sets her journal on the devan and scoops up the discarded embroidery hoops from where they had been forgotten. She feels his eyes on her neck, but she gives him no credence. 

“We should get you a wand,” he says as she tidies the sewing accoutrement by hand.

“I would have little use for one,” she sniffs.

“You’re upset.”

“I’m not.”

“You can’t fool me, Miss Granger. I know you.”

Hermione glares at him over the basket of notions as she sorts the various spools into color order. “Whatever gave you the idea that I’m upset? I’m not. I’m happy as a lark.”

He raises an eyebrow expectantly, and shuts the sewing room door. The din of the party mellows to a dull roar. She scrubs at her cheek with the handkerchief, which still found purchase against her palm. She hastily tucks it up her sleeve before he can ask about the emerald monogram. From his sleeve, Ron produces his wand. With one flick, the sewing sorts itself into the basket in the most orderly fashion, rendering the rest of Hermione’s duties null. She sighs, and softens.

“I just… missed you. I am relieved that you’ve returned. I am sorry for being petulant.”

Ron sits beside her on the settee, tossing the tails of his coat up so he doesn’t squash the fine silk. “I’ve come to expect it,” he teases gently. He pats her hand. “Come back to the party.”

“Your mother won’t have it.”

He touches her under the chin. “One glass of firewhiskey and mother will be snoring by the fire. Please? For me?”

It is tempting to give in to those pleading blue eyes, but she shakes her head. “I have to get back to Lancelot and the ‘Od boys. He’s about to be named king of the pirates, you know.”

“Don’t give it away!” He covers his ears. He gives her a sad smile, and then shrugs. “If that’s what you want. But you’ll be missed.”

“Only by you.” Hermione secures the sewing box and slides it beneath the settee. “But I’ll meet you at the stables in the morning for a pre-breakfast race.”

“I’ll demolish you.”

“That’s what you think,” she laughs. “You’ve been gone two weeks, and I’ve been practicing.” Hermione flees the room with one last wave. Ronald bids her goodnight.

She climbs the stairs to the attic as she does every night, ascending to her tower where old women dare not go, and closes herself into her chilled dominion. Hermione doesn’t bother with the fire, which will burn all night if she lights it now; instead, she curls up on the seat beside the window with her woolen blanket, and watches the torches on the drive below as they lap at the autumn breeze. She holds her palm upward and whispers across her skin: _incendio._ The flame she has grown to control leaps to life. It is her own, a flame just for her, better than any waxen candle in any Weasley chandelier because it answers to her will.

Just then, a shadow moves on the gravel walk below. She closes her palm, but not before she realizes that the moon of a face is turned upwards to scrutinize her in the window. It’s him. The stoic Captain, whose handkerchief is still tucked up her sleeve. He raises his hand to his hat--a great, tall thing which shadows his face as he bows his head--and gives her the only regard she has ever received from a gentleman of means. It’s quick. Soon, he’s joined by Lord Zabini on the lawn, and the two men spark up pipes. Smoke curls around their faces.

She watches them, like a voyeur in the stars, until the tobacco burns away.


	2. beyond what one fancies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Miss Parkinson shows preference for Hermione's company, and so does another.

_"You have qualities which I had not before supposed to exist in such a degree in any human creature. You have some touches of the angel in you beyond what—not merely beyond what one sees, because one never sees anything like it—but beyond what one fancies might be. "_

_—Henry Crawford, Mansfield Park, Jane Austen_

_____

In a prettyish bit of woods, a doe cuts through the underbrush, just as the sun peeks over the horizon. The creature casts a long shadow, which outpaces its harbinger by several yards. The young thing is startled away by the raucous smack of boots in the grass as a young woman descends from the embrace of a knobby oak, the eldest tree on the estate, out-lived only by thorny rose bushes; they stopped flowering long before the weather began to turn (and are, in the gardener's estimation, several decades old and therefore, too spiteful to die). 

Exhaustion plagues Hermione. The house was up until all hours the night previous, and their caustic amusements floated up to the attic until the moon itself tucked in. She rose as soon as dawn broke. Her morning writing routine was upset by the fact that she couldn't focus on the story; when she sat down to crown Lancelot the pirate king, the thing felt... foolish. Hermione gave credence to many childish things, but never turned that glass on herself. Which is why she opted to take a turn up to the ridge of oak trees, and why she now hastens back towards the great house. Her brunette curls fly about, secured only by two combs off her temples. It is a temperate November morning, in which one has no need for a coat or gloves, so long as one remains in motion. Besides, it takes very little energy to invigorate one's hands. A simple incendio, a few minutes of curling each finger into the little flame, and her hands are perfectly cozy. The only sign of cold in her is the pink in her cheeks. There is as much productivity in a walk than in an interlude at her desk. Maybe even more.

Hermione swishes her switch through the charmed fuchsia (which encroaches the arbor over the garden gate), bursting the little blossom in a shower of petals. For the briefest moment, it is as if the flowers are made manifest from the tip of the hickory. It is a wand of a kind, whose only magic is in the way it spurs on her young horse. _If I am possessed of a Patronus, and they are indeed as corporeal as it is claimed in Scamander's Fundamentals of Charms, perhaps mine is a little dappled thing like Cordelia,_ she thinks. 

She rounds the corner of the stables, and is confronted by a formidable figure in a fine riding suit, which is woven in every fashionable shade of azure. The visiting Lord's surprise to see her is evident, though his face does not seem to betray annoyance. He seems rooted to the spot.

She forgot him, forgot them all, for an hour or two. Yes, for those hours betwixt sleep and discovery, she was blessedly alone.

"There you are, Miss Granger," Lord Zabini chuckles, all astonishment. "Freed from your dovecote, I see. Walk you all this way unaccompanied?" He balances his cherrywood pipe between his thumb and forefinger.

Against her will, the tease inspires a breath of a laugh. "No sir, for I had the sunrise, and the mud to attend me." Hermione skirts around the man. She needs only to saddle Cordelia--she can do it by herself, now--but the stable is empty of all occupants. Not even the mule is braying behind her gate.

"Ah, you'll not find your horse in her pen," he calls. "She's had rigorous exercise this morning."

"I... beg your pardon?" She blinks at the man, which only spurs him to laugh once again. He points. 

Miss Granger's head follows the gentleman's survey, only to fix on the crest of the hill. Two figures gallop at speed across the green, and the shining silver mane of her beloved Cordelia glints in the dewy morning light. _She's not mine. A horse cannot belong to anyone, we only shelter them as best we can, give them a comfortable home, some exercise when they are due._ Were she honest with herself, Hermione might remark just now that Cordelia is the only creature who has patience for her, and seeing her carry another rider is unbearable. Especially because Ron purchased Cordelia for her particular use. 

"Oh... Miss Granger. You had your heart set on a morning race, did you not?" Lord Zabini steps beside her, a hair's breadth from her shoulder. Instead of the mocking tone, which always hangs from a Weasley's lips like an elegy to her obscurity, his voice takes on a rather different tune: sympathy. 

Sympathy, like a fire, gives rise to a healthy flush. "I've taken my exercise by way of the hedgerow, my lord--"

"Good gods!" He rumbles with amusement. "That title yokes me in far too much importance this early in the day. 'Zabini' will do. All my friends use it, for all occasions."

His posture is civil and casual, canted towards her with his arms clasped behind his back. The corneas of his eyes are gilded in a circlet of copper, and when she does not persist, the corners crinkle into a gentle smile. _Gods._

"Zabini." She tests the Italian surname on her tongue. 

"Does it suit? Madame Granger?"

"Cor," she coughs. "Don't let Mrs. Weasley hear you."

"Miss, then." His congeniality serves much like a cup of cocoa for the pang of being forgotten by Ronald, but the longer she goes on standing there with a Lord, the smaller she feels. She doesn't like being looked at. This gentleman peers with purpose.

She clears her throat. "Nobody around here bothers with a dignified title for the likes of me, Zabini. You may call me Hermione, or not dignify me with any consideration, whatever."

When his lips pull away from his teeth--pearly and straight, perfect, of course--she wonders how the lord of a grand, distant estate (Miramar, as it is known, which is by all accounts a vision of Grecian marble) came to be standing beside her, calling her by her Christian name.

Blessedly, she is saved from hearing him say it. The crunch of gravel beneath black boots diverts his attention behind them, where the Captain approaches with three rifles hung over his arm. He is attired in the opposite fashion from Zabini; with his greatcoat catching every swirling current, the fair-haired man cuts a stoic and imposing figure. He bears no expression whatever, but slows when he catches sight of Hermione.

"Look what I found, snooping around the stables," Zabini announces, offering his elbow as if to present her to his approaching friend. "A delightful little rabbit."

Captain Malfoy inclines his head. He chose a new chapeau for a morning hunt, and the brim shadows his face. "Morning," he manages.

In lieu of taking Zabini's proffered arm, she drops at the heel in what must appear to both gentlemen to be a clumsy curtsy, but neither one deigns to raise an eyebrow. The Captain thumbs over his shoulder. Zabini turns to Hermione.

"Miss Granger, you've been fine company, but I'm afraid I am being pulled away for more barbarous activity."

She can't help herself. "I did not take you for a hunter."

"Never shot a thing in my life, and I don't intend to start," he chuckles, eyes glinting. "We great men must make amusements where we can, and scaring up pheasants for my friend, here, is good fun. Which is why I must leave you to your invigorating walk. Miss Granger."

Indeed, several more men turn up at the assertion: Frederick and George lead the pack of brothers in a stampede, complete with barking dogs snapping at the ankles of their horses; around the curve of the front drive, Mister Potter trots on a black thoroughbred, with the reins of a white charger in hand. Mister Weasley follows on foot with his own horse, Anglia, and a burlap bag slung over his back. From the East, Ronald is beaten to the steps of the manor by Miss Parkinson on Cordelia. She throws her head back and laughs with all of her teeth showing. Ronald doesn't seem in the least miffed to lose what is clearly a race. Whenever Hermione had the chance to beat him, he always belly-ached about it for the rest of the day, insisting on a rematch, a do-over, maybe if they just switched horses--but for Miss Parkinson, to lose is to win. The joy on his face is a stab to the heart.

She tries to duck into the stables before anyone else can take notice of her, but no such luck--Ronald sees her and kicks his leg over the horse's head to dismount (which he did to annoy her because in her skirts, such a maneuver is impossible. It is his one superiority to her skill on a horse, and he did it to rankle her). His face as he hastens towards her does not seem regretful for abandoning their plans.

"Hermione! We're going to follow behind them. Come with us!" He reaches her in a few short strides, but she shakes her head. 

"There aren't enough horses."

"Zabini's walking, so I'll do the same. You can take Alistair--"

"And anyway," she says, shouldering past him, "I am needed to help prepare breakfast. Mrs. Reynolds asked me for my help, and I am loath to let her down. I gave her my word."

He catches her elbow, but then thinks better of it, casting a glance over his shoulder at who might see. Oh, Ronald. "I didn't think you'd mind. She wanted to ride, see the estate--"

"Good luck! I hope you catch all the birds. I'll see you at breakfast." The arrow of unspoken anger lands squarely in his chest. Her heart squeezes to hurt his feelings. They have any audience, and she doesn't want to mortify him any more than her wounded pride will allow.

"Is Miss Granger joining us! Oh, thank heavens, another lady to complete our party!" From atop Cordelia, Miss Parkinson gives a convivial wave, which Hermione supposes she means only to increase Ronald's favor. Favor she has won by being pretty to look at. Hush, green-eyed monster.

"Enjoy your hunt," Hermione calls back with as much good will as she can muster.

Before another member of the party can insist on her joining them without meaning it in the slightest, Hermione darts through the small door, which leads from the side drive into the servant's wing. She shuts the door to the kitchen a bit too hard behind her, startling Mrs. Reynolds and sending up a puff of flour.

"Merlin's ghost, Hermione." 

"Sorry," she grumbles, tossing her spencer over a hook on the wall. She plucks her apron from its usual hook and ties it at her waist. 

"You're up early this morning. Riding with the young master?" 

"That was my intention," she sighs. Mrs. Reynolds is part-way through her bread recipe, and nearly to the step where she requires Hermione's strong, young hands to knead the dough. Hermione dips her hands into the wash basin and scrubs under her nails with a small brush.

"Ah."

"Mrs. Reynolds... yesterday, Ronald mentioned something that made me think."

The woman snorts. "I shudder to think what that might be."

"Well..." Hermione dries her hand on her apron, and the cook slides the bowl across the counter in readiness. It's sticky, but Mrs. Reynolds tosses a layer of flour over the marble. Hermione peels the dough up, and commences kneading.

"He mentioned the idea of my having a wand."

"He offered to procure you such a thing? Wasn't that very idea banned by the Missus when you nearly burned the entire attic up--"

"He suggested that I could obtain one, that having one would make quick work of my chores, and such."

Mrs. Reynolds leans against the sink, and folds her arms. "Aha. And... the young master hired the carriage to take you post-haste to Ollivander's, all the way in London, to purchase just such a wand with his meager allowance, against his mother's wishes?"

"Mrs. Reynolds..."

"D'ya know that he was in my kitchen before the sun rose preparing a basket to take out this morning?"

Hermione pauses her ministrations to the dough. She stares at the lump of Mrs. Reynolds' secret recipe, (which she only shared with Hermione in the last year, and only after much pleading and promising not to share it with anyone else) and tries to make sense of those words.

"He's after Miss Parkinson, and make no mistake," she chuckles. 

"Maybe." Her voice comes out as a mere squeak. The dough before her takes on the very shape of a face, though whose she couldn't decide, and she digs her fingers into it ruthlessly. Mrs. Reynolds pries her hands from the task.

"Dear, sweet girl. If the young master intended to choose you, out of all the eligible young ladies, and lift you out of obscurity, he would make certain you weren't banished before supper service is begun. You'd have gone to that posh school, and come home speaking French on holidays. You'd have a wand." The kindly cook, who has long been more mother than matron of the kitchen (at least to the girl living in the attic whose mother died when she was too young to remember), doffs her young ward on the chin, leaving a puff of flour behind. "Surely you know that."

Hermione's eyes fill with tears, but she nods. Mrs. Reynolds embraces her, then. 

"Between us... I should like to see the Missus' face the day she realizes that she plays second fiddle to another woman. She will assume the pallor of a rotten cabbage. It's a race to see which brother will marry first..." 

She laughs, but Hermione finds she can't quite take joy in such a thought. Especially after the cook's assertion that she won't be that woman. Still. It is a wonder that the one person who sees her--not as a young woman in her care, not as a childhood friend, not as a burden, and certainly not as a rabbit--is also the only person in her life who isn't reliant on magic. The whole of the Weasley's pride themselves on being the pinnacle of blue-blooded magical society. The wisest in their household, in all of Burrow Lodge, is their Muggle cook. 

Hermione rubs Mrs. Reynolds' back in gratitude. "Oh, Mrs. Reynolds. I'm a little fool."

"Tosh. You're a brilliant young thing, and you've plenty of life ahead of you. There will be more young masters ready to break your heart, and no mistake," she teases, better securing one of Hermione's hair combs. "A lovely thing like you is sure to be admired wherever she goes."

"For that to come to pass, I would have to go somewhere," Hermione laughs. 

"Now that is a very fine idea! What about Mrs. Longbottom, your friend from church?" She is indeed a friend from that time, back when the Weasley's trotted her out like a show pony and testament to their charitable nature. Luna Longbottom, nee Lovegood, is always sweet to her, no matter how long they go between seeing one another. They have never been confidants, but Luna has always been kind.

"She's in Lyme, now that Neville's received his commission and paid off."

"Perhaps a visit to the seaside would suit?" Mrs. Reynolds takes back her bread, which hasn't been as thoroughly kneaded as she prefers, and forms it into its final form before baking. 

"The whole of this family was just there--"

"You. Just you."

"I cannot just invite myself to stay!"

"Hermione, dear. You may write to a friend who cares about you and express your desire to see her again. An invitation is sure to follow. I never saw you so dour as the day she married that young sailor! Save today, I think."

"How is one supposed to look when the only other person who thinks well of you goes off and does an absurd thing like getting married?"

Mrs. Reynolds chuckles. "Yes, how very dare she fall in love, and with a lieutenant, no less."

"Do you know... other than Luna, you're the only friend I have."

"Oh, my. That is grave." 

The cook winks, then, and places her bread into the oven to bake. She distracts from Hermione's building ennui by putting her to work on frying the sausages, and no more is said about Ronald, Miss Lovegood, or what little Hermione has in the way of true friendship.

A little while later, a little note materializes in her pocket.

_The hunt was miserable. I deserved it._

_\- R_

Like that, she forgave the young master… even if he did deserve a bit of misery.

_____

The hunting party does not return in time for breakfast, which leaves Hermione to take the meal with only Mrs. Weasley and Ginevra. It is a kind of torture akin to being rotisseried over a low fire, which is too cool to burn, yet dizzying. She succeeds in ignoring the petty cordiality with which she is regarded by both women, but their conversation soon turns to the guests of the house, and Hermione is dragged in against her will.

"I wish their friend had not accompanied them," Mrs. Weasley says, with her mouth full of buttered bread. "I said it when Miss Lovegood married that man and I'll say it again: the Navy brings men of obscure birth to undue distinction."

"Mama, Captain Malfoy's father was a gentleman of some renown," Ginevra protests, much to Hermione's shock. "His blood is as blue as ours. He chose to enlist of his own volition."

"He does not use his title?" Hermione asks, earning a constrained glare from Mrs. Weasley.

"He entailed away his estate to families of men who died during the war," Ginevra explains. "His land was parsed up, the manor house turned into a hospital, and he lives elsewhere. His only income now is from his captaincy, and he rejects using any other title. The only fine company he keeps now is Zabini and Mister Potter."

"Yes, well. He is severe." Mrs. Weasley clicks her tongue.

"Oh yes. Quite. But he is Harry's friend. Do try to be civil, Mama."

"He is not so severe," Hermione says softly. Both women's eyes track to her.

"What would you know?"

"It's not as if you've spoken two words to the man!" Ginevra titters with laughter at such an idea.

Mrs. Weasley's face twists in a devilish grin. "Oh, but she has. I believe she means to get him alone again!"

"Naughty Hermione!"

"He asked me about the library!" Hermione's entire being blushes, because he hadn't asked her such a thing. Instead, he followed behind her as she fled from Mrs. Weasley's cruelty, and offered up the handkerchief which now is hidden beneath her pillow. She doesn't know why she concealed it there, except that her bed is the safest place to weep when it is required, and the place she most often feels compelled to. 

"Father doesn't want you in there," Ginevra scoffs. "I hope you told the Captain as much."

"I don't believe the Captain would like being spoken about in this way."

"You're not at liberty to say what the Captain likes," Mrs. Weasley spits.

Hermione pushes back from the table. "Excuse me," she peeps. Tears threaten again, to be so ruthlessly cornered with insinuations that are so far from the truth as to be slanderous, against herself and a man about whom she knows little. She sniffles as soon as Mrs. Weasley excuses her with a nod and an arched brow.

The conversation continues as if she was never there, and she hears the tail end of it.

"Zabini, on the other hand," Ginevra continues, "finds himself showered in all the fortune that his Italian father can languish upon him, and has no wealth won on his own merit..." 

Hermione escapes into the hallway and nearly collides with a tall person. Her heart drops into her feet at the sight of the brown greatcoat, and the owner's hands grasp her arms to steady her.

"I apologize," she whispers. For them, for crying, for blundering about like a bull in a china shop. For the ridicule he likely overheard. She cannot stop the tears as they escape. She might have held them back, if she hadn't run headlong into the man she just defended to her guardian. Mortification moves her. Captain Malfoy's face is hard and unmoving, but as he is known to do, he submits one of his blessed handkerchiefs.

"For your collection," he murmurs. He wastes no time--as soon as her fingers close around the cloth, he turns on his heel and strides down the hall, in the direction of Zabini's booming laughter. At the door to the library, he pauses and looks back at her with those deep, slate eyes. She sharply inhales.

"Captain! Mister Potter has a glorious idea for Christmas--"

The Captain's attention is diverted, and Hermione takes the opportunity to hide in her upper room until lunch.

_____

A week passes in the style best becoming a manor house with rich guests--there are many more morning hunts, more missed breakfasts, and even more attention from Zabini just at the moments Hermione least wants to be observed... and another new phenomenon arises. Miss Parkinson addresses her, and invites her on walks through the garden, and joins her for embroidery. Suddenly, Hermione is not kithless two minutes but Miss Parkinson is at her side, confiding some little thought or another. The most interesting thing of all is that Miss Parkinson often requests that Hermione be her only companion, even slighting Ronald for company. 

It is on the seventh day of the visit when Miss Parkinson convinces the entire household that they should spend a lavish evening together, complete with entertainment--up until then, the group generally dissipated in the evenings: men to their billiards and pipes, and women strewn about the house doing whatever pleased them (which is why Hermione manages to conceal herself away just after supper each evening). The elder five Weasley brothers are out for the evening, having been compelled to London for a gathering of their alma mater, so the party is more or less an agreeable bunch.

They all dress in their finest clothing of a Sunday, and Miss Parkinson pays devoted attention to Hermione. She is invited to borrow a peach dress of Pansy's, permitted to address the young woman by her first name, and demanded to sit beside her at dinner. Pansy doesn't make demands like Ginevra; every suggestion is an invitation--would you like to use my glass, Hermione? I do not mind. I could help you with your hair, but only if you want. She is affable, kind, with a deliberate directness, which leaves Hermione reeling for purchase.

Pansy uses her curling rods on Hermione's hair, and pins it up into a fetching coiffure, adorned with baby's breath, which she asked Hermione to help her pick in the garden. She loans her pearl drop earrings, and a silk shawl that she fancies a bit too ivory to flatter herself, but which is perfect on Hermione. 

Hermione's locks are always unkempt, pulled back just at the sides, un-tameable by pins--until in the capable hands of Pansy. When they descend for dinner, Ronald makes a startling accurate impression of a codfish, and Zabini declares Hermione 'an angel among angels'. Hermione accepts the compliments as they flow, but only because Mrs. Weasley and Ginevra's countenances sour with each one.

_____

Supper is eaten, which is done in half-light at Pansy's urging. Afterwards, they gather all together in the great room for entertainment--whist, music, and too much sherry when all is said and done. Hermione is enlisted to turn Pansy's pages at the pianoforte. Ronald beams at them, and Pansy offers him a shy smile over the sheet music. Mrs. Weasley wrangles Mister Potter and Zabini into whist with Ginevra, leaving Mr. Weasley to fall asleep in his chair. The Captain perches himself beside the fireplace, and strikes a match to light his pipe. He does not look away from the fire as Pansy begins her song.

She has the voice of a lark, and quick fingers, which make easy work of the tune. It is one of Hermione's most favorite pieces, and she says so. Pansy slides down the bench before the second verse, and insists that Hermione join her on the low keys.

"Are we to hear both ladies, this evening?" Zabini gasps. 

"We beg for an audience, don't we Miss Granger?" Pansy nudges Hermione with her shoulder, making Hermione blush.

"In truth, I live in fear of an audience--"

"Come, none of that. No false modesty! Mister Weasley languished over your accomplishments, and I must experience them for myself." 

Hermione is an excellent pianist, beyond the merit of Miss Parkinson. She would never say so, but it is evident as the women begin their unrehearsed duet. Pansy gives her deference. Their competing crescendos clash only in their consideration for the same tones, and disregard for the length of the other. Miss Parkinson's melodies hang on the will of her resonance, of her vocal instrument, while Miss Granger's originate from the skill of her fingers in partnership with her foot on the pedal. Hermione does not sing--though she can, and loves to for this piece--because the eyes of all make her feel choked by attention. In the end, the two women manage to find a partnered cadence. Hermione is left, by the final notes, feeling quite like she's floating. Pansy grips her hand in delight, and everyone gathered claps to some degree, excepting the Captain. He crosses his arms, and when the movement catches Hermione's eye, he bows. Zabini bounds to the grand instrument, to pay his compliments.

"I hope we may have the pleasure of hearing you play every evening, Miss Granger."

"Only if she likes, you pillock," Pansy teases her cousin. "Miss Granger is not to be bullied, on my orders."

"I wouldn't dare." The gentleman extends his hand to Hermione. "Please sit by me, Miss Granger. Tell me all about yourself, if you will. I'm dying to know how such an angel came to live amongst us mere mortals."

Of its own volition, Hermione's hand floats up to his, and she allows herself to be led to the couch--a long way from her usual private corner chair. Pansy wanders to Ronald's side, and says some soft words to him. His eyes land on Hermione and he beams proudly, nodding to whatever sentiment Pansy has shared. Hermione's cheeks are permanently flushed.

"Well?" Zabini asks.

"You've frightened the poor creature," Pansy chastises. "Give her a chance to recover."

"Hermione's not used to being looked at," Ronald remarks warmly.

"I'm afraid I have mortified you." Zabini pats her hand, which he will not relinquish to her. "You need not trouble with me."

"Mister Weasley is right," Hermione admits. "I find this all quite overwhelming." Zabini does not push her further. In fact, he returns her hand with a gentle bow and a smile, and strikes up a new topic with Ronald, something to do with the population of fish in the lake. Pansy takes her seat beside Hermione.

"You're enduring our pestering with aplomb."

Hermione smiles. She speaks softly, so only her companion may hear. "I admit that... nobody in this house cares two figs for me, save Ronald."

Pansy frowns. "The Weasley's are not kind to you."

"They are as kind as they are able." 

Just then, the feather-light touch of a gloved hand brushes against hers on the sofa cushion. He is not looking at her, not listening, not regarding her at all, but Zabini's hand is pressing into hers. Pansy's gaze alights on the gesture and her dimples deepen. She says nothing about it, and Hermione retrieves her hand from the danger of the kind comfort, but is trapped between two people who seem to care an awful lot about her feelings... with little idea why that might be.

"Come," Pansy whispers. "I need your advice." She is radiant in an opalescent white silk gown and silver cut steel diadem with matching earrings; Pansy appears to be glowing from within, dewy and effervescent in any light. It is a credit to her beauty that she is also kind, lively, and affable. She extends her hand to her friend, and Hermione takes it readily. The further from the Lord, the better.

The young women traverse the room with no design on hastening, and both nick a glass of sherry from Mrs. Reynolds when she brings in the cart. The cook gives Hermione's elbow a squeeze, and she is bolstered. Hermione can feel eyes on herself and Miss Parkinson, but dares not seek the watchful source until both women are seated on the window bench. By then, the only person who marks them is Mrs. Weasley, but her head snaps back to the game of whist as soon as she realizes Hermione caught her. 

"I am aflutter." Pansy presses her gloved hand over her heart. Her eyes track over the expanse of the Turkish rug, to the couches where Ronald and Zabini are in conference with Captain Malfoy, who deigned to sit himself down. When she is satisfied that they aren't being observed, Pansy takes a courageous sip of her sherry.

"You must suspect by now how very much... entranced I am by the youngest Mister Weasley. You need not say a word--I know my feelings are too obvious to be masked. I do not know if he feels the same. You are so dear to him. Has he... mentioned me?"

There is no conversation that she would rather participate in less than this one. Hermione's heart plummets. She wills her face to remain passive, her voice not to choke. What does she want for him, if not herself? Kindness, to be sure, and beauty in a wife, which Pansy Parkinson possesses in spades. Someone to challenge him, to ride with him--to outpace him, even. A woman worth knowing. 

So much the better if she could foster a friendship with his wife. Would it not be a comfort to know he is happy?

Her hands prickle. Blessedly, her eyes restrain the welling threat of tears, and she does not boil her wine in its glass.

"He has."

Pansy's cheeks turn pink. "Did he seem to do so with fondness?"

"Well," Hermione says, sipping her own sherry for a moment, "Ronald knows no strangers, you see, and is well-liked wherever he goes, but... yes, when I hear him speak of you, he does so with a certain preference." 

"Oh!" Pansy covers her mouth. "Bless you for saying so, Miss Granger. Hermione. I am so grateful for your perspective. I know no better judge of character than yourself."

"Surely Ronald has given you some idea of his feelings?"

Pansy is bashful. "He is cordial, and kind, but always and in every way considerate. In Lyme, he never seemed to stray far from my elbow, always ready to assist me into the carriage, or offer his opinion on ribbons. I wish he had a propensity for reading, but then again, I don't believe he could sit still long enough to indulge in a book."

They shared a quiet laugh behind gloved fingers. "Perhaps he need only be assured of your affections," Hermione murmured. "He is severe on himself. Even the happiest of men need some encouragement."

"Oh, Hermione. I do desire we may be sisters, and that I may think of you as family in just such a way that he does."

Hermione casts a look at the couches, and finds that all three men have turned an eye to the conspiring pair: Captain Malfoy in his black velvet coat and crisp trousers, Lord Zabini in Emerald and gold, and Ronald in a burnished bronze jacket, which would be garish on any other man with auburn hair, save him. The third man nods and raises his glass pointedly to the raven-haired woman at her side. Pansy returns the inclination, and sips so he might see the moue of her lips. Hermione looks on in quiet passivity, while the two sides of her heart tear in opposite directions. 

_____

The closer Christmas looms, the closer Hermione becomes to her new friend. It is Pansy Hermione confides her consternation with Mrs. Weasley's incessant pestering. The woman is even permitted to read from the 'Od Boys, though Ronald requests to be present while she guesses which characters are representative of the real Weasley family. 

And in another regard, she finds herself always the subject of Zabini's attention. Somehow, very likely as a result of his persuasive candor, Hermione is allowed to sit in the library... Mister Weasley even insists upon it. Several days before Christmas, while Pansy is out with Ronald and a goodly portion of his brothers on a hunt for a Christmas tree, Hermione hides herself in Grecian stories, of which Burrow Lodge possessed many.

The soft clicking of hard-soled boots signals the entry of a companion. She does not look up, but a hand reaches over her shoulder--deep, olive skin and sleeved in burgundy--and she knows that Zabini has sought her out. She is not altogether bothered by the idea. He plucks the book up, and he sits beside her. He glances at her briefly to gauge whether or not she will allow an imposition, but when Hermione says nothing, he clears his throat.

 _"Never was such a goddess witnessed, in Sparta or Thrace, never such a queen with hair like golden fire. Olympus trembled to behold her, Zeus himself bowed before her. Helen. Helen of the cliff side, Helen of the depths. Helen, Helen, for whom he would take a dagger a thousand times in the heart, Helen who would be his downfall."_ Zabini's eyebrows raise in pique. 

"You read well," she murmurs. In truth, she wants him to read it again--slower, roll the words over his tongue and languish in them. He is a fine reader, and it is no surprise. It seems that every word from Zabini's lips is cherished.

"Thank you." He hands her back the book, and she hugs it to her chest. "Are you a fan of the romantics, Miss Granger?"

"I'm ashamed to say that I am."

"Why ashamed?"

"It is... childish, is it not... to be drawn in by them?"

He tilts his head as he considers the sentiment. "We none of us are immune to romance."

"Aren't we?" Her voice comes out like a soft breath. Zabini smirks as if he won a confession from her.

"My cousin isn't, if her mooning is any indication."

"Think so?" Hermione recognizes that familiar stab in her gut, the reminder that Ron will never choose her, and yet... she is now so fond of Miss Parkinson that it is not a loss. If anything, the potential match feels like a gain, especially to have a woman amongst them all who likes her. Once again, Zabini's outstretched palm appears in her vision. He takes her hand and squeezes it.

"How droll you must think us," he says. "Wealthy magical society is quite boring. I'm sure you've seen your fill."

"On the contrary. I have been quite diverted these last few weeks."

"Forgive me... are you the only Muggle in this household?"

Hermione's face must betray her utter devastation to be asked such a thing, but then--how would her magical propensity ever come up? Pansy insisted that 'accomplished ladies don't lift a wand for matters beneath their station,' and nobody in the party bothered to demonstrate their own magical prowess. _It is the privilege of the rich to squander their magical abilities, take their wands for granted, hold back their nature..._

"I misspoke--"

"How would you know? It's not as if I have a wand. I did not attend Hogwarts. I live as a squib, for all intents and purposes." Hermione stands, but Zabini holds fast to her hand.

"They are very cruel to you." It is a statement, not a question. "I should like to see what charms Miss Granger has up her sleeve."

"None of note."

"You are... out of practice?"

She clenches her teeth, attempting to pull her hand away, but to no avail. "It has been insinuated that the less I speak, the more worthwhile I am."

"Let me guess: 'you're not to speak unless spoken to."

"They must have told me such a thing when I was a young girl, but I find that one needs to have something substantive to say, to warrant obedience."

"What substance do you require, Miss Granger?"

"A hungry mind. An easy countenance. General affability without devolving into foolishness--"

"Such a knight, indeed. I wonder at you knowing such a creature."

"I haven't met a person yet who warranted it."

His mouth quirks up. "Yet you cow to Mrs. Weasley's whims with all the readiness of a little finch in a cage." It’s meant to tease, but the subject bites.

"Self-preservation doesn't require obedience--only compromise."

"You compromise yourself for her?"

"No. I compromise with myself not to hex her with every word that crosses her lips."

"Ah. You show restraint."

The words spill from her before she can stop them. "You haven't the faintest idea how right you are. Because I have no family, I thank her. But because I have no family, I believe I have every right to my own heart." She looks away. "Forgive me for speaking so candidly."

"You are the crisp night air, Miss Granger. Refreshing and disobedient, in all your charms."

Hermione allows him to hold her hand, then, because for once, she has a choice. 

"Do you believe Pansy and Ronald are a match?" she manages. Zabini's smile softens, but it does not bely pity.

"They possess complimentary airs. He could do worse than my cousin, who has taken a shine to _you._ I do not think it will be long before an attachment is formed."

She nods solemnly. "When he takes orders in a few months..."

"Orders? Is... is Mister Weasley intending to join the clergy?"

"Yes. Has done since he was a boy," Hermione says, with some confusion as to his surprise.

"Gods. Pansy. A curate's wife. It is not what she imagined, but--"

"I think there are worse things than a life of passion and contemplation."

Zabini squares himself to her then. He is now far too close to her, but he doesn't give her any indication of being a threat to her. "Right again, Miss Granger. You have a habit of that."

"Of what?"

"Proving me wrong." He bows over their clasped hands, faintly brushing her knuckles with a chaste kiss, and leaves her to reel unaccompanied. Her hand tingles long after he has gone.

_____

It is well into the evening when Hermione tip-toes past the den, where few of the men are holed up to let the last of their tobacco burn down, and she overhears a strange discourse. There are only two voices, but it soon becomes clear to whom they belong: Captain Malfoy (who is adept, now, at disappearing during the daylight hours) and Lord Zabini. She can't help herself. Hermione presses herself to the wall outside the room.

"...There was a degree of love, to be sure. But it's nothing. It is over."

 _What is over? And... with whom?_ She wonders at how little she knows of the man, though he has an open countenance as if he keeps no secrets at all. 

"You're confident in that."

"Who do you take me for?" Zabini chuckles. "I am as sincere in my affections as the day I first laid eyes on her."

"You and sincerity keep little company."

"You wound me. Am I not allowed a diversion?"

There is a long pause before the Captain answers. "Of a kind."

"What do you think of her?" Zabini asks lowly. Hermione flattens herself to the wall for fear that he is aware of her presence, just beyond the door.

"I do not think of her at all." Captain Malfoy's voice is curt.

"Come now. I find her diverting. Even if she has the eyes of a doe for our friend."

Pure mortification fills Hermione and she must press her mouth to silence an involuntary groan. _Why must I be so transparent, so obvious? Mooning as I do over Ronald, so much so that Lord Zabini has noticed and marked my affection._

The Captain sniffs. "One does not find what one does not seek. I neither seek such a woman, nor mark her. She is as God made her, and I thank him for it. A little prettiness, I'll grant you, but no subtlety to speak of. But the maker pays no heed to my whim, and neither should you, Zabini."

_No breeding. So little breeding that the Lord took me for a Muggle. Ah, but I am better for it. Better even than you, Captain._

"I find her to be an angel. Certainly a mite more affable than Pansy."

"Weasley adores her."

"I wonder, Draco."

"Hmm."

"What sort of woman could earn a kind word from you?"

Hermione pales. When he did address her, on the few occasions she has heard him speak, Captain Malfoy has been kind. Not in the same fashion as Zabini, but... direct. Without an ounce of judgment. It is a testament to his honor. Surely Zabini knows his friend better than that.

"Not an angel, I'll warrant." Zabini's words feel almost territorial, then.

“Gods forbid you fall in love with her, man!”

Her heart beats in her throat. _Love. In Love? With her?_ Oh, Merlin, no. No, No… It wasn’t possible--they had only been acquainted a short time! Hermione hears the floor creak and she gasps, darting for the stairs so she won't be seen. 

A hand darts out and grabs her wrist. She whips around to liberate herself and wants desperately to cry at the sight of him.

"Hermione! I've hardly seen you all day!" Ronald's face glows in the light from the candle he grasps in his other hand. "What have you found to occupy your time?"

"I was reading. In the _library."_

His eyes widen. "How did that come to pass?"

 _The moment he learned that I was prevented from the room, Zabini had become angry, and stormed off to the old Master’s den to give him a piece of his mind. It was frightening._ And disorienting, to be advocated for in such a way. 

"Lord Zabini insisted that my banishment was unreasonable,” she explains, “and your father gave up his sentence. I believe he puts stock in the Lord's opinions."

Ronald blinks in shock. "Oh. Well... that is kind of him."

"Yes."

"He dotes on you, I think." What is that in his tone, just then? That little bitter punch on _quite._

"He's a gentleman," she agrees, though she won't give any outward credence to the idea that Zabini or anyone else dotes on her. Save Pansy, whose affection is clear. “And I am grateful that all our guests should be so congenial.”

“As am I. Look.” Ron pulls the tail end of a ribbon from his sleeve. The silk, silver and luxurious, was tied neatly around the handle of his willow wand. “Do you not recognize it?” It was a token from the black-haired woman, from the night she had confessed to Hermione her dear feelings for Ronald, it could not be otherwise. 

“Have the words been said between you, then?”

He shakes his head. “On Christmas, I shall ask her. I hope she will accept.”

Hermione presses his arm. “She will. Ron…” She sighs, and shivers with the notion of releasing all her hopes for him. He sets his candle on the post and covers her hand. “I hope you’ll be happy together.”

“Your approval of Miss Parkinson is the only one that matters. Hermione… I love you so dearly, and you’ve blossomed among our friends. I hope you feel it, too.”

“I… I do.” 

Ronald pats her hand. “Alright. I’ve kept you long enough. Sleep well. I’m told we’re going to Hogsmeade tomorrow for a bit of Christmas shopping, and no--don’t pull a face, Hermione Granger, you won’t get out of it!” He laughs when her face twists into a scowl.

“I will be made to follow behind like a puppy all day,” she sighs.

“I won’t let that happen, and neither will Miss Parkinson.” Ronald takes up his candle again. “Goodnight, Hermione.”

“Goodnight.” 

Ronald’s soft slippers make little sound as he leaves her for the comforts of the family’s wing. She watches the light from his candle disappear down the long corridor. _He’s going to ask her to marry him._ Hermione sinks onto the bottom step. If she doesn’t go upstairs, doesn’t lay herself down, doesn’t close her eyes… it will not happen. Right?

She won’t lose him to marriage, which will take him from this house, her one ally amongst a sea of judgment.

_What need has Lancelot for the pirates, now?_

“Oh. Little dove. Lost your way in the cold?” 

Hermione peers at the leather toes, which come into view at her feet. 

“Come,” he whispers. Zabini helps her stand. "Your hands are warm. There is no chill in you to speak of."

Hermione smiles, though she feels no hint of humour. _He spoke of love..._ "I'm rarely cold."

"I thought not."

"May I bid you goodnight, my Lord?"

"Ascend you into the heavens once more, Miss Granger. Would I could pursue, but alas--" an adept, feather-light kiss alights her hand-- "I have no wings." He cannot help the grin which fills his face, and its infectious energy passes to her mouth, too.

She points down the corridor. "Get you thence."

Zabini lets his flirtatious front slip into shyness, and his voice quiets. "Say you'll walk with me. To the hedgerow and back, tomorrow morning."

"Then you'll go?"

"Then I shall leave you to dream pretty fancies."

Hermione sighs dramatically, which only encourages his handsome face in its joy. "I will walk with you. After breakfast, and if you do not desist from pressing my hand this instant, then I'll withdraw my agreement."

"You ask great patience from me."

"As well I should." _You are dangerous. Women would do well to be on their guard with you._

He relinquishes her hand and steps down. "Pleasant dreams." He bows deeply, and when he rises again, he is sanguine. "If I feature in any of them, you might tell me on the morrow."

 _Gods._ "I never remember my dreams," she says. 

"Alas for me." He waits. She lets her desire to leave settle against the stair rail. It is entirely overwhelming to hold oneself up under the ruthless gaze of a wizard with nowhere to be, and he fishes his wand from the inner lapel of his coat.

Wordlessly, the man conjures a piece of parchment. With a flick, the paper folds itself inward, and he raises it to her eye level. 

"Give it a little breeze," he murmurs. She purses her lips. All it takes for a reaction is a small puff of air, and the paper inflates. He snaps his fingers. The tiny paper balloon glows, rising upwards. 

"To guide you." He conceals the wand. "Quick! Before it gets away." Sure enough, the lantern has turned the bend of the staircase. Hermione shakes her head and beats a hasty retreat. She arrives at the top floor without touching the steps, it seems--flying as fast as the wings of panic and mortification can carry her, with the light from Blaise Zabini's lantern to lead her--but once her bedroom door is shut... she smiles. The lantern extinguishes itself, and alights in her palm when she offers.

When her cheek finds purchase on the cotton pillow, tears do not fall for the revelation that Ronald intends to engage himself with Miss Parkinson. She does not think of Ronald right away, not until she drifts into sleep. In her dream, he turns away from her, leading a woman with black hair away atop Cordelia.

The love of her pitifully short life takes something from his coat pocket--a little journal with a marble flyleaf--and tethers it to the basket of a hot air balloon. Fire ignites, the balloon sails high, well out of her reach.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading! Happy Christmas, and joyous Yule. :)

**Author's Note:**

> Join me to chat on Tumblr at The Super Jane :) Comments and thoughts are always welcome!


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